Andrew Gross - The Dark Tide

The evening news had finished. Mimi had turned off the light. David Letterman was on. Lennick turned to her to see if she was asleep. “Shall we catch the monologue, dear?”

Karen waited two days. Charles didn’t reply.

She wasn’t sure he ever would.

She knew Charles. She tried to imagine the shock and dismay that her e-mail must have caused.

The same shock he had caused when she saw his face up on that screen.

Karen checked her e-mails several times a day. She knew what must be going through him now. Sitting in some remote part of the globe, the careful construct of his new life suddenly crumbling. It must be killing him-retracing every step, running through a thousand possibilities.

How could she possibly know?

How many times, Karen imagined, he would have read over those two words. Replaying everything in his mind, racking his brain, all the preparations he had made. His bowels acting up. Not sleeping. Things always affected Charles that way. You owe me, she said to him silently, relishing this image of him, panicked, rocked. You owe me for the hurt you put me through. The lies…

Still, she couldn’t forgive him. Not for what he’d done to her-to the kids. She no longer knew if there was love between them. If there was anything still between them, other than the memory of a life spent together. Still, it didn’t matter. She just wanted to hear from him. She wanted to see him-face-to-face.

Answer me, Charlie…

Finally, after three days, Karen typed out another message. She closed her eyes and begged him.

Please, Charlie, please… I know it’s you. I know you’re out there. Answer me, Charlie. You can’t hide any longer. I know what you’ve done.

I know what you’ve done!

Charles sat in the corner of a quiet Internet café in the harbor on Mustique, where he had put in, staring in horror at Karen’s latest message.

A collection of dreadlocked locals drinking Jamaican beer and a party of itinerant German surfers in tattoos and bandannas. He had a pressing fear, even here, that everything was closing in on him.

I know what you’ve done!

What? What do you know I’ve done, Karen? And how? Hidden behind his shades, he took a sip of a Caribe and read the message over for the tenth time. He knew she would keep at it. He knew her. This was no longer something he could just ignore.

And how in hell did you find me?

What do you want me to say to you, Karen? That I’m a bastard? That I betrayed you? Charles could sense the anger resonating in her words. And he didn’t blame her. He deserved whatever she felt. To have left them as he did. To have put them through that anguish. The loss of a husband, a father. Then, after it all finally subsided, to suddenly find out he was alive!

Answer me, Charlie.

What do you know, Karen?

If you knew, truly knew, you would understand. At least a little. That it was never to hurt you. That would have been the last thing in my heart.

But to protect you, Karen. To keep you safe. To keep Sam and Alex safe as well. You would know why I had to stay away. Why, when the door opened and the path presented itself, I had to “die.”

Please, Charlie, please… Answer me, Charlie.

The surfers were cackling loudly in German at something they had found on YouTube. A heavyset island woman in a colorful shift sat down across from him, towing a young daughter sipping on a Fanta. Charles realized he had spent so much of the past year hiding, in shadows, turning away from who he was. From everything he once loved.

But all of a sudden it was like he felt alive again. For the first time in a year! It was clear to him, you could never fully kill it. What was inside you. Who you are.

And now Charles realized that if he only touched this key, a flick of his hand, sent this message back, answered her, it reopened everything. The whole world changed again.

I know what you’ve done.

He took a swig of beer. Maybe it was time to move on again. To Vanuatu in the Indian Ocean. Or back to Panama. No one would find him. He had money there.

He lifted his shades. He looked closely at the words he had written. Pandora’s box was about to open again. For her and for him. And this time there would be no closing it. No sudden bomb blast interfering-nowhere to hide.

The hell with it, he said. He finished the last of his beer. She had found him. The iron fist in the velvet glove… he recalled fondly.

She would never let up.

Yes, I’m here. Yes, it’s me, he said. With one last reflection, he pushed the send key, sending his world spinning again.

Hello, baby…

Hauck had gone out for an evening run around the cove. He’d sat at home for a couple of days, and still he hadn’t heard from Karen. The night was hot, sticky. The cicadas were buzzing. Finally he just had to calm the frustration that was bursting in his chest.

He knew it wasn’t right to push. He knew how hard this had to be for her, to face her husband. It would be like a part of Norah suddenly brought up for him again. Ripping open wounds that hadn’t healed. He wasn’t sure whether to wait and see if she still wanted to find Charles. Or now that she knew the truth-at least parts of it-to simply pack it in. Bring what they’d found into Fitzpatrick.

He’d have to reopen the case. AJ Raymond’s hit-and-run.

That’s what had started him on it in the first place, right?

To his surprise, as he headed back down Euclid toward his house, he spotted the familiar Lexus parked on the street. Karen sitting on his front stairs. When he came to a stop, she stood up.

A slightly awkward smile. “Hey…”

She was dressed in a fitted black shirt worn out over nice jeans, her caramel hair a little messy, a chunky, quartzlike bracelet dangling loosely from her wrist. It was a warm summer night. She looked great to him.

“I’m sorry to barge in,” she said, a look that was almost forlorn, little-girl-ish, coming through on her face. “I just needed to talk to someone. I took a chance.”

Hauck shook his head. “You’re not barging in.”

He walked her up the steps and unlocked the door. He grabbed a towel off the kitchen counter and wiped down his face. He asked if she wanted a beer from the fridge.

“No. Thanks.”

Karen was like a bundle of nerves, and she walked around like she was holding something deep inside. She went up to the easel by the window. He followed her over, taking a seat on the stool.

“I didn’t know you paint.”

Hauck shrugged. “You better look at it closely before you use that word.”

She stepped up to the easel. So close that Hauck could smell her scent-sweet, blossomy-his pulse climbing. He held back the urge to touch her.

“It’s nice,” she said. “You’re always full of surprises, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

“That’s about the nicest thing anyone’s ever said about it.” He smiled.

“You probably cook, too. I bet you-”

“Karen…” He had never seen her so wound up. He swiveled around and went to grab her arm.

She pulled away.

“It was him,” she said. Her eyes were liquid, angry, almost glaring at him. “He answered me. It took three days. I had to write him twice.” She put a hand to the back of her neck. “I didn’t know what to say to him, Ty. What the hell could I say? ‘I know it’s you, Charles. Please answer me’? Finally he did.”

“What did he say?”

“What did he say?” She sniffed, blew out a derisive blast of air. “He said ‘Hello, baby.’”

“That’s all?”

“Yeah.” She smiled, hurt. “That was all.” She took a few steps around, as if she were holding back some torrent, checking out the view of the cove off the deck. She went over to a console against the wall. He kept a couple of pictures on it. She picked them up, one by one. A shot of the two girls when they were babies. He saw her staring at it. Another of Hauck’s boat, the Merrily.